


AELDWS 2017 drabbles

by emb_pface



Series: AELDWS [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Arthur/Eames Last Drabble Writer Standing, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, M/M, aeldws
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 01:04:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13179072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emb_pface/pseuds/emb_pface
Summary: 2017 AELDWS drabbles. I'm actually kinda proud of these. Smashed as much as I could into the word limits.Non-Elimination weeks:1. Arthur and Eames never apologize, not really. But they have a system.2. Arthur doesn't react well to a new somnacin formula.3. Eames likes to escape like a normal person. Arthur didn’t expect that.4. Eames isn't supposed to sleep. (Sci-fi AU)5. They keep each other's names. They can't do much else. (Military AU)





	1. our eyes were blue

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: conflict resolution styles; Genre: canon; Word count: up to 500 words

Above Eames’ mantelpiece lies a hidden compartment. Inside, is… a curious collection. A few knickknacks here, a few microchips there.

He isn’t sure exactly when it started. It’s a little game they play, back and forth; a little morbid, a little needling. Not always a fun game, but a game nonetheless.

Somewhere, he knows Arthur has his own collection.

Eames hums, picking up the latest item, a dry-cleaning bill. Gingerly, he presses on his still-healing ribs, and remembers.

 

\---

“Improvisation is the name of the game.” Richards is defensive and tinny over the phone. “I’m not sorry.”

“A regular poet,“ Eames snarls through bloodied teeth, clutching his ribs as he weaves through the crowd. Bloods seeps heavily through his shirt. “I will fucking _bury_ you.”

“I’d say good luck with that, but you’ll need it for something more immediate.”

Bullets whip into the brickwork above Eames’ head, and he puts on a burst of speed, ducking into an alleyway.

“Goodbye, Eames.”

Eames spits invectives, but Richards’ already gone. Eames careens down shrinking passageways before breaking out into an open street, just narrowly missing getting mowed down by a car, and suddenly, they’re upon him when—

Eames is clipped heavily on the side — Christ, that _hurt_ — as another car bursts through the fight, bowling over his pursuers.

“Get in!” 

He dives into the backseat. Fuck, his ribs. The car revs, thumping nastily as it rolls over the bodies; his breath hitches painfully. “You said Richards was clean,” he rasps, grabbing the gun in the front cupholder. Fuck. _Fuck_. He glances down; half his shirt is blood. “This was my good shirt.”

“He was,” Arthur snaps. “You don’t have any good shirts.”

“Clearly wasn’t, thanks. And I liked this shirt.”

The tires squeal as Arthur whips them around; Eames can’t bite back a moan.

“I checked— put pressure on that.”

Eames shakily presses a hand to the wound, mumbling. “Told you something was bloody off.”

“There was no background crossover, wasn’t any— goddamnit, put some _fucking_   _p_ _ressure on that_ , stop bleeding.”

“Right, it’s my fault I’m bleeding out.”

“Eames—!”

 

\---

At this point, his memory blurs together. There’s an inverse relationship between the perception of time and pain that Eames is deeply intimate with, and it’s here Eames easily rides the gap of memory back into his dry-cleaning musings.

The bastard had even paid for the shirt to be sewed up.

At the bottom of the bill, neatly penned script reads:

          _God and your arms be praised, victorious friends,_

_The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead._

A perfect, dark spot bleeds next to the writing – one could almost mistake it for a spilt drop of coffee. Almost.

Eames huffs, amused. So dramatic.

He thinks about ringing Arthur, but, well. All debts seemed to be paid, didn’t they? Eames tucks the bill back into the compartment.

And if Eames is especially careful not to crease it, well.

They were both always too stubborn for their own good.


	2. in my dream room, my body above you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur doesn't react well to a new somnacin formula.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “It could be worse.”; Word count: up to 300 words

“Well.” Eames plants his hands on his hips. “It could be worse.”

Arthur blows a raspberry. “It could always be worse.” He leans across the desk to Ariadne, speaking in a loud whisper. His words are slow, slurred. “One time, Yusuf made me see unicorns.” He frowns, haunted. “They weren’t nice to me at all.”

“That’s really too bad, Arthur.” Ariadne’s voice is strangled, and she looks at Eames helplessly, barely holding back laughter. _He’s like a puppy_ , she mouths.

Arthur frowns, no, _pouts_ at her then, and whines, “I’m not a dog. Oh—” He reaches forward to touch her earlobe. “You have nice ears.”

Ariadne bites her lip hard, and solemnly pats his hand. “Thank you, Arthur.”

Snorting, Eames turns to Yusuf. “The new formula's a bit off,” he says mildly.

Yusuf grins. “He’ll be fine after a kip. Meanwhile—“ He snaps a photo.

Eames can’t help grinning either, but smacks Yusuf’s arm hard enough he fumbles his phone. Ignoring his protests, Eames walks over and slips under Arthur’s arm. “Alright, let’s get you lying down.”

Arthur smacks his lips loudly. “I don’… put out on th’firs’ date.”

“A true gentleman,” Eames laughs, lying him down on a cot on the other side of the warehouse. When he starts pulling away, Arthur’s arms shoot out and grab his ears, keeping him close. He softly pets them with his thumbs; Eames’ eyes meet Arthur’s, startled.

“You have nice ears, too,” Arthur mumbles. “Nice… face.” And then he reaches up, kisses Eames, and promptly passes out.

Eames can only stare. After his brain reboots, he laughs, patting Arthur’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Arthur snores.

 

 

Later, when Eames checks his phone, Yusuf’s sent him a photo of the kiss.

And if Eames doesn’t delete the photo, well, nobody needed to know.


	3. on a little road (barely)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames likes to escape like a normal person. Arthur didn’t expect that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: guilty pleasure; Word count: 200 words exactly

“So this is where you go.”

Eames doesn’t look up from where he sits on the cabin steps. Wood shavings litter the ground; small shapes rest by his hip. He neatly etches into the stick he’s holding. “Problem?”

“No, it’s just—“ Uncertain, Arthur waves a hand, encompassing the scene: of the cabin, of the woods, of Eames. “Quiet. I thought you were more a… people person.”

Eames still doesn’t look up, raises a sardonic eyebrow. His hands keep moving. “Aren’t you all about ‘not mixing business with pleasure?” Here, his voice pitches, his vowels flattening. Arthur recognizes his own voice, feels his mouth twitch.

Quietly, he watches Eames adeptly carve a vague horsehead shape. He takes a breath. “That’d be pretty hypocritical of me.” Stepping forward, Arthur sits next to Eames, looking straight ahead. They just barely brush knees. “Thought you’d be gone when I pulled up.”

Eames pauses.

Then, carefully, he presses a knee to Arthur’s.

Arthur doesn’t move.

Eames doesn’t take his knee back.

Something in the line of Arthur’s shoulders relaxes, and he looks over to see a small smile on Eames’ face.

“Occasionally, company isn’t too bad,” he says, “when I feel like a people person.”


	4. electric sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames isn't supposed to sleep. (android AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: hypnogogia; Genre: AU; word count: up to 250

Eames isn’t supposed to sleep; he’s not built for it.

He’s not supposed to eat or drink, either, that mucks up his internal wiring; he’s not supposed to do a lot of things.

For example, if he’s not supposed to sleep, then he’s not supposed to dream. So this, now, can’t be dreaming. 

Eames flips through the new information from his previous cycle, uploading, processing, categorizing. 

The blood against his Keeper’s back is bright and sticky, nothing like the nonorganics that run Eames’ system. Carefully, he threads stitches through skin, fascinated by its elasticity. Scattered across the expanse of his Keeper’s back are scars and other blemishes; clarification: freckles. Eames’ skin is blank, unmarked. 

A single look counts 52 marks. For no reason at all, he’d like to recount them all by hand. 

Somewhere deep in his database, he puts away a dated map of constellations as quickly as he pulls it up. Extraneous data isn’t needed here.

“Eames, come online, please.”

A distant voice drags Eames into cognizance; his system ticks awake, gears whirring, wire endings sparking. 

His Keeper taps away at a nearby monitor. “Hmm. High processing levels last night,” he comments, smiles at Eames. “Counting lots of sheep?”

Eames takes in the dark circles, the stress lines, the curve of his lip. Halfway down his neck, dark, sleep-tousled hair nearly hides another freckle. He notes it all.

Eames isn’t supposed to directly lie, either. But he wasn’t told anything against omission.

He grins back. “53, so far.”


	5. how do you like your blueeyed boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They keep each other's names. They can't do much else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: the same story from both POVs; Genre: wildcard (Military AU?); Word count: up to 500 words

Arthur visits when he can. He likes running his fingers over the name, stone still cool to the touch this early in the mornings.

They hadn’t expected him to survive the war. Neither did he— he and his partner had been sent on a classified, desperate, last-chance suicide mission: get in and get the intel, whatever the cost.

But he was Arthur Fucking Dawes; he’d gotten that intel, he’d survived, and he’d marched back alone on a broken leg like a good soldier, because he was a goddamned professional.

The intel paid off; the war had ended within the year.

Arthur had taken his unofficial medals, and had gone home. Got a cabin, and when healed, he’d gardened, and felt the slide of someone else’s tags around his neck.

His partner’s face fades a bit. Arthur’d tried to draw him once, but his features had shifted as he drew, mercurial on paper as he was in life, blurring memory and imagination; this had startled Arthur so badly he’d never tried again.

When they’d finally put up a memorial, he’d gripped the tags and fought too long to get his partner’s name discreetly engraved alongside the others, unofficial fucking mission or not.

He thinks, there’s no part of him that doesn’t ache.

 

-—-

Eames doesn’t remember falling, but he remembers Arthur.

“Get up,” he’d snarled, pulling at Eames, but Eames’d been heavy and weightless all at once, and thinks he’d choked out, “I’m sorry,” or “I can’t,” but he doesn’t remember. But he remembers Arthur paling, shaking, his grip a painful pressure Eames couldn’t quite feel anymore.

“Fuck you, don’t do this. Get up. _Get up.”_

Words had always been Eames’ strong suit: a shield, a weapon, a tool, a joke always at hand— but words had failed him then, his throat working.

“Arthur,” he’d managed.

Despair wasn’t something that befell a man like Arthur easily. His expression is still seared into Eames’ memory.

 _“Eames,”_ he’d pleaded.

Eames doesn’t remember anything else.

Then he wakes.

Major blood loss, shattered ribs, sepsis; frankly, a medical nightmare. He’s lucky he’d woken at all. It takes entirely too long to heal just enough to leave the overrun hospital— bedridden, he’d been starved of real information and communication for months. When he returns home, war is closing up shop, and Eames grins. Arthur had done it.

At the office, they’re absurdly shocked, but hand him a new identity without fuss, already having neatly buried his old one. On Arthur, however, they are close-mouthed, grim, and show him Arthur’s tags.

He pockets them as he leaves, giving them a new home around his neck. Eames heads to the airport, and takes the earliest flight out. There’s nothing anchoring him here anymore.

Eames wanders aimlessly for months.

Eventually, he wanders to a familiar park; in the far distance, a memorial. He considers wandering back away, absentmindedly rubbing a thumb over Arthur’s tags.

Still, it’s before sunrise; too early for anybody to see him.

He walks forward.


End file.
